I recently bought a cat, but took it back a day later because our personalities clashed.
The mind has a mind of its own. It shows us pictures. Pictures of the past and the might-one-day-be. This mind's mind exerts its own will, too, and has its own voice.
Nothing is as eloquent as nothing.
Good moods’re as fragile as eggs...Bad moods’re as fragile as bricks.
Italians give their city sexes, and they all agree that the sex for a particular city is quite correct, but none of them can explain why. I love that. London's middle-aged and male, respectably married but secretly gay.
If you show someone something you've written, you give them a sharpened stake, lie down in your coffin, and say, ‘When you’re ready’.
This isn’t lust. Lust wants, does the obvious Love is greedier. Love wants round-the-clock care; protection; rings, vows, joint accounts; scented candles on birthdays; life insurance. Babies. Love’s a dictator.
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner.
Lying's wrong, but when the world spins backwards, a small wrong may be a big right.
Many children are natural fantasists, I think, perhaps because their imaginations have yet to be clobbered into submission by experience.
Creation never ceased on the sixth evening, it occurs to the young man. Creation unfolds around us, despite us and through us at the speed of days and nights. And we call it love.
How lazily "xperts" dismiss what they fail to understand!
What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?
We looked at each other for the last time; nothing is as eloquent as nothing.
Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds, and contrary tides... I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.
Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
People are obscenities. Would rather be music than be a mass of tubes squeezing semisolids around itself for a few decades before becoming so dribblesome it'll no longer function.
Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms around the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage.
If swans weren't real myths'd make up.
The healthy can't understand the emptied, the broken.
Gosh. The subjunctive is always the first to go.
Your turn has come to sift through the dreck of humanity for rare specks of originality
...there ain't no journey what don't change you some.
Music’s a wood you walk through.
If your words're true, they're armed.
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